


The Hermit and the Shepherd Boy

by ElectraRhodes



Series: Let it be a story then [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Allegory, M/M, Magic, Metaphor, Wish Spells, a talking fish, fairy tale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-01-25 18:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12538764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElectraRhodes/pseuds/ElectraRhodes
Summary: The hermit, the shepherd, and a magical fish.The first of four linked fairy stories.For everyone attending Fannibal Fest Toronto, a week of fairy tales.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nalyra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nalyra/gifts), [ReservoirCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReservoirCat/gifts), [hyperfashionist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyperfashionist/gifts), [Nia_Kantorka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nia_Kantorka/gifts), [vix_spes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vix_spes/gifts).



The shepherd boy runs barefoot across the open scrub of the hillside. He is nimble and fleet of foot and his small flock of goats and sheep follow him readily.

From the mouth of the cave where he stands the hermit watches the boy head for the tree-line. Just before he reaches it the boy turns and sketches a wave to him. The hermit hadn’t realised he had been seen but he raises a hand in his own greeting.

And then the boy is gone.

The hermit came to the cave only recently, but it suits his purposes. It is dry, deep enough to keep out the rain and wind that scours the valleys hereabouts, small enough to heat with a fire of juniper and pine branches, sputtering and fragrant. And the view is something to behold.

The few people who pass near by sometimes trade with him; for the things he carves from fallen boughs, for a wish-spell, for a letter scribed on a scrap of parchment, for some pocket of wisdom. Sometimes they have money, more often they have food. Either suits him well enough.

The boy usually passes twice a day, early in the morning up and over the near by rocky pass, and in the evening when the sun starts to dim.

Today though is different.

Some time, when the shadows are at their longest and are on their way into gloom it begins to rain. And rain. And then rain some more. The hermit retreats into his cave and lights a small fire and then sets out his supper. There is no sign of the boy.

When he has eaten and carefully stored the leftovers the hermit hears the clonkle of bells and he skirts round the edge of the fire to look out. In the gloaming he can just make out the aimless descent down the hill of the small flock, untended and wandering, except for the dog the boy favours, nipping at the heels of a reluctant ewe.

He frowns, goes back into the depths of the cave, pulls on his cloak and lights a horn lantern.

Out in the rain he pulls the cloak tighter around him, and then pulls the hood over his face, sheltering his eyes.

He feels for the buttoned pockets inside; checks for the flask, the dried meat and berries, a knife, a flint and pouch of dried tinder, and a metal cup. Satisfied he lifts the lantern higher, more for the welcome glow than its soft illumination. 

As he searches at the edge of the trees he calls occasionally. He has never learned the boy’s name but his intent is clear. After he calls he stops and listens.

When the lantern begins to spit he considers that he may have to abandon his search, until he hears the faintest cry.

Heading towards the sound he repeats his call, listens for the answer and after a short while he finds the shepherd boy propped against a tree stump on the edge of a clearing. The boy looks up and makes an apologetic noise,

“I twisted my ankle. I was stupid. I can’t put my weight on it.”

The boy’s voice is low and tired, and the hermit realises he is older than a child.

“I have something you can drink and eat. You must be cold.”

As the hermit passes him the flask and meat the boy nods,

“I thought I might perish out here. Did you see the herd?”

“They passed close by. On their way down.”

The boy nibbles at some meat and sighs,

“Well. I shall see trouble for it. If you help me, I can probably hobble.”

The hermit sits beside him and undoes his cloak to wrap around the shepherd.

“Eat first. Get a little warmer. Then we shall try.”

Sighing into the folds of the cloak, still warm from the body of the hermit the shepherd answers, 

“Thankyou. Sometimes something as simple as a little human comfort is a wonderful thing.”

The hermit smiles at him, and once the boy has eaten, the hermit holds the cloak around them both as he half crutches the boy out of the trees and across the hillside, back to the cave.

Once there he settles the boy,

“Sit here. We can strap your ankle. Tomorrow we will get you home, but both of us risk more than a twisted bone if we try to make the village in the dark.”

He looks back over his shoulder out of the lee of the cave and into the darkness beyond.

In the valley below he can see the glow of the forty or so houses there. When he looks back at the shepherd boy he sees he is already asleep, exhausted by the pain and worry. The hermit goes back into the cave and returns with some long strips of linen. He wraps the shepherd’s ankle tightly. It is testimony both to his skill and the boy’s wretched state that he doesn’t wake.

The hermit tucks the cloak more closely round the boy and then fetches a blanket of his own from his bed at the back of the cave. He seats himself, and wraps his blanket around his shoulders.

He tends the fire until morning.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a few days later when the head man comes along. He makes no bones about it, just settles himself outside the mouth of the cave and waits. When the hermit comes home, a bag full of herbs and a sack full of fragrant kindling and carve-worthy branches he simply smiles a small tight greeting, makes sure he knows where his knives are, one at his hip and one down the side of his shoe. If he needs them.

“This is a surprise. What can I do for you then? I don’t think I’ve seen you all the way up here before.”

The head man leans back and shades his eyes, the hermit has the sun directly behind him and it is hard to make out his features and the expression on his face.

“You looked after our lad. I’m grateful. Thank you. I wanted to ask you a little about what happened. If you don’t mind.”

“About him? No. I don’t think so. Let me drop these things. Maybe make us a drink?”

The man nods, and watches as the hermit stocks his pile of wood, then as he hangs the herbs to dry from a line a little back inside the cave, and finally as he tidies a few things away.

The hermit brings a small iron pot to the fire and blows into a fire pipe to set the sombre embers glowing brighter. He adds some punk and tiny twigs. And slowly the fire builds and licks up the side of the pot. The hermit adds water to it and then holds up a flask to the head man who nods in reply. He tips the clear liquid in, just a few mouthfuls each. Then he reaches for a pouch at his own belt and crumbles something further into the swirling mix. They wait. Neither of them saying anything. Holding their own council.

When they have both drunk a cupful the head man sighs and begins an explanation,

“He’s a dreamer that one. He sees things. Visions. Hears things too sometimes. He worries everyone. Frightens the women a little.”

“There was nothing to suggest such a thing. He twisted his ankle.”

The head man nods,

“He twisted his ankle that’s for sure, it’s the why that concerns me. He’s supposed to be keeping a sharp eye out. I can’t lose any lambs or ewes. Or the kids and nannies. It’s a precarious time.”

“You want me to keep an eye out for him? An eye on him? Let you know how he does?”

“Would you?”

The hermit pauses,

“I could.”

The head man says nothing and then sighs,

“I could make it worth your while.”  
........................................................................

It is only the following day when the hermit returns from a trip into the village that he finds the shepherd waiting for him, leaning on a walking stick.

“I came to say thank you. But I gather I’m not the first.”

The hermit smiles as he unpacks his bag,

“And how do you know that?”

The young man nods towards a second cup that the hermit has hung near the fire to dry out properly.

“It’s a good cup. A proper one. You’d use that for someone who mattered.” The shepherd watches the hermit’s face and then smiles. “Not because you’re trying to impress them. But because you blend in better that way. Hidden in plain sight, if you meet their expectations.”

The hermit nods. And the shepherd continues.

“I think you’ve a reason to stay hidden don’t you? You’re like me. You see things differently.”

The hermit is about to speak when a voice from the path just below interrupts them,

“Hey! Hey. What are you doing up here. You’re not supposed to be up and about yet.”

The hermit looks at the woman, all flushed and indignant, maybe from the climb up the hill or maybe from the circumstances. He stands and smiles a genial reassuring smile,

“It can be good to test our limits.”

She snorts a retort,

“You have to know there are some before you can test them.”

She beckons to the shepherd who shrugs and makes to follow her, he sends a quick smile over his shoulder to the hermit as she leans in and clearly berates him as they descend the path.

The hermit watches.

..................................................................

In the late evening just as he is turning in he feels as though there are eyes somewhere out in the dark just watching. He tries a low call, but there is no reply. He stands in the mouth of the cave and listens for a while longer. As the moon ascends it illuminates the rocky hill. And though the feeling of being watched continues he sees and hears nothing.

..................................................................

In the morning though there is a small wooden pipe, just a simple three note flute propped against the place where he keeps his carving tools. He picks it up and turns it over in his hands. It’s crude but delicately hollowed out. And of a sufficiently wide diameter that its notes are pleasing and resonant.

He wonders who might come if he plays it. What magic it might hold. He tries a note. Just a small test. He thinks he hears an answering laugh. Well then.

**Author's Note:**

> The stories in the series come from a workshop I went to one Saturday afternoon. Oh what inspiration! 
> 
> And were written, for the most part (except this first chapter of story one) during Fannibal Fest Toronto!


End file.
